The taxi rolled to a stop at New Century Park's main gate just as the morning sun cleared the skyline, painting the ticket booths in soft gold. Chen Ge paid the driver and dialed Xu Wan, his voice carrying over the early crowd already forming. "Need a hand with some boxes—heavy ones." She arrived in minutes, ponytail swinging, uniform crisp despite the hour. "Boss, what's in these?" she asked, hefting the first carton with a grunt. "Mannequin heads," Chen Ge replied, lifting another. "Don't open them if you scare easy." Xu Wan's eyes widened, but she nodded sharply. "Understood." Together they muscled the three large boxes through the staff entrance, past the flickering ghost-face sign, and into the Haunted House's dimly lit foyer. The wheels of the dolly rattled over warped floorboards, the heads inside shifting with soft, unsettling thuds.
Once the boxes were stacked safely behind the ticket counter, Chen Ge sent Xu Wan to the dressing room to prep for the day's visitors. He took his post at the entrance booth, ticket roll in hand, mind already racing ahead. Mu Yang High School opens tomorrow—need bodies on these heads by tonight. Staffing's the bottleneck. The current crew—himself, Xu Wan, and occasional floaters—was stretched thin. If push comes to shove, I'll borrow a park worker from Director Luo to man the ticket window. He scanned the growing line, mentally tallying projected revenue, when a voice cut through the chatter. "Mr. Chen? Finally found you." The formality startled him; few addressed him so politely.
Chen Ge turned to find a man in his early thirties, casual charcoal suit tailored just enough to suggest money without flash. A black leather briefcase hung from one hand; his short hair was neatly styled, teeth flashing in a practiced, dazzling smile. "You were looking for me?" Chen Ge asked, hand subtly brushing the mallet slung across his back. The man's grin widened. "Haven't missed a single livestream—your content's unmatched." Chen Ge accepted the praise with a nod, though he knew his streams suffered from shaky cameras and spotty mics. Quality came from the scares, not production polish. "Too kind," he said, still wary. "You're a viewer?" The man's eyes sparkled. "Loyal fan. Caught your first midnight ranking video, been hooked since. When Qin Guang ripped you off, I posted the side-by-side on the forums—called out every stolen frame."
The claim sounded rehearsed, the smile too polished for pure fandom. Chen Ge filed it away. "Appreciate the support," he said, tearing a ticket. "Fifty percent off for fans." The man waved it off. "Don't want to hold up your line—let these folks through first." He stepped aside with theatrical courtesy, ushering the queue past. Chen Ge sold tickets on autopilot, mind spinning. When the rush slowed, the man slid back into place. "Heard Qin Guang's crew tried to sabotage you—sent patients to fake breakdowns?" Chen Ge's jaw tightened theatrically. "Shameless liars. Slipped two unstable people in, filmed the chaos, then played victim to smear me. Pure gutter tactics."
The man's smile sharpened, eyes glinting like a predator scenting blood. "Exactly—framing you over a Haunted House visit? Weak excuse. And now they're in the hospital themselves, swearing to bury your channels." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Another studio blocked them. Platform's for everyone, not Qin Guang's empire." Chen Ge's pieces clicked: rival studio, old grudge, shared enemy. Limited slots for recommendations and prime-time views meant Qin Guang's dominance starved others. This man wasn't here for scares—he was recruiting an ally in a quiet platform war.
Chen Ge's gaze flicked to the sleek black suitcase, his imagination briefly conjuring stacks of crisp bills. "You're here to propose collaboration, right?" he asked, leaning against the ticket booth, the morning crowd thinning behind them. "How should I address you?" The man's polished smile didn't waver, but his eyes sharpened, sensing the shift to business. "I'm a host myself," he said, adjusting his grip on the case. "Call me Liu Dao." The name landed with a practiced cadence, like a brand. Chen Ge nodded, filing it away. "Liu Dao, then. What kind of collaboration are you pitching?" The Haunted House's gate loomed behind him, its faded ghost-face sign creaking in the breeze, a silent reminder of the real dangers he faced nightly.
Liu Dao's demeanor turned earnest, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Supernatural livestreaming is exploding—everyone wants a slice. Our studio's hungry for it, but we lack the right face to lead. We could pour resources into any host, but even then, we'd never outshine Qin Guang. His ethics are trash, but his streams are slick—funny, charismatic, polished." He paused, letting the compliment to Chen Ge's rival linger. Chen Ge raised a brow. "So you're pinning your hopes on me? I'm just a regular guy running a Haunted House. Qin Guang's got the charm." Liu Dao shook his head, his professional smile fading into something more genuine. "That's where you're wrong. I've watched every second of your streams. They're different."
"Your streams don't just entertain—they grip," Liu Dao continued, his voice alive with conviction. "Most supernatural livestreams, Qin Guang's included, are obvious fakes from the first frame. He spins tales, hams it up, but it's all theater. Yours? The tension never lets up. Every shadow, every sound—it feels like death's breathing down your neck. Viewers don't just watch; they feel the fear with you. That's rare, Chen Ge. That's why I'm here." Chen Ge suppressed a smirk. Because it's real. The black phone's missions weren't staged; the blood, the ghosts, the mirror monsters were his reality. "Maybe I'm just a good actor," he said, deflecting with a shrug. Liu Dao's eyes gleamed. "No actor sells life-or-death like you do. Not even pros."
Liu Dao leaned closer, his pitch gaining urgency. "Your streams are the only ones with a shot at toppling Qin Guang. Join us, and we'll fight for you—prime slots, top recommendations, the works." Chen Ge's interest piqued, but he knew nothing came free. "What's my end of the deal?" he asked, crossing his arms. Contribution and reward were a balance; he'd learned that lesson in blood. Liu Dao's grin returned, sensing a hook. "We scout creepy, abandoned locations, rig them with scares—hidden props, sound effects. You livestream there, plug our studio in your chat. Simple." He snapped open the suitcase, pulling out a thick file. "We run a stream every ten days, matching Qin Guang's cadence. Here—check our planned sets and scripts."
Chen Ge flipped through the file, his lips twitching with disappointment. The locations were tame: a derelict factory beside a housing estate, an old school with a convenience store across the street. One wrong camera pan, and the illusion shattered. The scripts were worse—predictable jump scares, canned ghost stories. "These are too safe," he said, shaking his head. "A kid could see through them. You think this beats Qin Guang?" He handed the file back, sighing theatrically. Liu Dao frowned, defensive. "They're secure—fully scouted, auto-cameras for safety. What more do you want?" Chen Ge's eyes glinted, the black phone warm in his pocket. "Let me suggest a real set." He unlocked his phone, typing Third Sick Hall into the search bar. The screen filled with grim headlines: Patient suicides, Illegal experiments, Vanished staff. Unfiltered photos showed blood-smeared walls, rusted gurneys, a staircase swallowed by shadow.
Liu Dao's confident facade cracked as he peered at the screen. The graphic images—corpses in restraints, scribbled pleas on cell walls—made his throat bob. Sweat beaded on his forehead, which he wiped with a trembling hand. "You're serious?" he asked, voice faltering. "The Third Sick Hall? Isn't that… pushing it too far?" The file in his hand suddenly felt flimsy, his polished pitch exposed as child's play against Chen Ge's proposal. The Haunted House's gate creaked behind them, as if echoing the hospital's distant screams, and Chen Ge's smile was a quiet challenge, daring Liu Dao to step into the real abyss.